The Bar Built in an Old Sheet Metal Factory by Jamey Gallagher

    This was in Nashville, in the kind of rain you can’t see through, a deluge. 
    I trudged up and down some streets until coming to the bar built in an old sheet metal factory, and there was the bartender with the neck tattoo and the pretty lady sitting there watching me as I walked in. The rain had washed off almost all the blood by then but not all the blood. Nothing washes off all the blood. She must have thought I’d done something irredeemable, but she was the kind of person who kind of liked that. Looked me up and down, said that thing about being dragged in by a cat. 
    Ordered a bourbon then another bourbon and drank them one after the other until my hands stopped shaking. Then I had another. It was loud as hell in there with the rain battering the tin roof. Sounded like it was still a sheet metal factory. Nobody could stay in there long without losing their minds.
    I might have been concussed, was the thing. Couldn’t keep my head straight. The bourbon didn’t help any. I stayed there all night and might have left with the lady. 
    I had a big bump on my noggin the next day, but I was no worse for wear, and when I asked that bartender with the neck tattoo next time who that lady was was in the bar last time he looked at me like I was crazy. Lady, he said? Wasn’t no lady. 
    I left it at that.

Jamey Gallagher lives in Baltimore and teaches at the Community College of Baltimore County. His stories have been published in many journals online and in print, including Punk Noir Magazine, Poverty House, Bull Fiction, and LIT Magazine. His collection, American Animism, will be published in 2025.